


The Importance of Being Wesley

by Bethynyc



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-12
Updated: 2007-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethynyc/pseuds/Bethynyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for: lostgirlslair, who wanted Giles, Post NFA, slow build, working together, for Round 15--Wesley of maleslashminis<br/>Notes: Some literary in-jokes, described at the end.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Importance of Being Wesley

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: lostgirlslair, who wanted Giles, Post NFA, slow build, working together, for Round 15--Wesley of maleslashminis  
> Notes: Some literary in-jokes, described at the end.

Wesley was found working in a rare bookstore in Swindon.

Xander found him, actually. Seeing Wesley shocked him, because more than two years after the Battle of Los Angeles, everyone believed he was dead, despite the fact that his body had disappeared. Xander, somewhat in shock, bought the books and obtained a business card, which he passed on to Giles.

“He didn't recognize me at all, Giles. I mean, I've changed a lot, but you'd think he would have thought I looked, you know, vaguely familiar. Nothing.” Xander shifted in his seat. Giles remembered that he had been there as well when Illyria told them of Wesley's death before she died as well, of wounds too many to staunch.

A strange emptiness, a sense of losing something that he never had in the first place, had permeated Giles' being after he learned of Wesley's death. They had previously corresponded, of course, shared research up until the time that Angel took over Wolfram and Hart. Giles had sent a hasty 'what the hell are you thinking!' email, which Wesley had replied to, explaining just exactly what they were thinking, what they all were thinking, in taking over an evil law firm. Giles had sent back a curt message saying he would wait for Wesley to come to his senses.

Wesley had never contacted him again. Angel did, when it came to the crazy Slayer, and Fred. But not Wesley, not until after, when a letter, terse and hurt-filled, arrived, filling Giles with guilt. Wesley, it turned out, had thought at one point that they were growing towards something special, more than friendship, and now that was gone. Wesley was dead, and he'd missed his chance.

Now, upon learning that Wesley was, indeed, alive, Giles went to investigate. He did his research first, of course.

He walked into the rare book shop, which was situated along a tree lined street just off the main part of Swindon, between a carpet store and a bakery. The bell rang as he walked in, just a little bit sharper in tone than his own bell at the Magic Box. The shop was filled with tall wooden bookshelves stuffed to the brim with used books. Rarer editions were in locked display cases. Dark wood paneling matched the shelves, and wing chairs upholstered in worn red brocade dotted the room, adding to the overall Victorian gentleman's club atmosphere. The only incongruous note was the state of the art computer and register resting on the tall counter.

The tall figure perched on a stool behind the counter was familiar, as were the sparkling blue eyes that peered at him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. A name tag pinned to the blue buttoned-down shirt declared that the clerk's name was 'Ernest S.' “May I help you?”

The shop was empty, but for some reason, Giles didn't want to pounce, to proclaim that Ernest really was Wesley. “I understand this shop purchased the library from the estate of Professor Susan Pevensie?”

“Yes, that's correct.” We- _Ernest's_ eyebrows went up. “She was a great lady. Did you know her?”

Giles nodded in assent. “Briefly. She taught me Dravnian.” This was true. Some adventure in her youth, and the loss of her parents and siblings turned a young girl into a studious mystic. She spent her inheritance on magical research, hunting for something she was never able to find.

Wesley—Ernest, damn it—looked surprised. “You read Dravnian?”

“Yes, of course.” Giles hid his excitement. Wesley had been one of a very select group of people who could read Dravnian, who was instructed by Professor Pevensie at the Academy, who, in fact, was the only one to score higher than Giles on the translation final.

Giles held out his hand. “Rupert Giles.”

Ernest took his hand and shook it. “Ernest. Ernest Sanders. How is it that you know Dravnian?”

“Was taught. I attended a special school, tutors and such.” Giles put on his acting hat and narrowed his eyes. “You know, you remind me of...but never mind.”

Ernest shook his head. “Mr. Ceniza thought it was in code. We were both shocked when I could read it. What sort of book is it?”

Giles baited the hook. “The Dravnian codex? Just a book written in an obscure language, Mr. Sanders.”

“Ernest. Please, Ernest.”

“Ernest.”

Wesley descended from his high stool to lock the door and turn the sign to 'Closed.' A frisson of nerves bolted through Giles, but he thought he could handle Ernest-Wesley. After all, he was in training.

The younger man turned to him. “Let me show you the book. It's in the back.” He turned and led the way up a short flight of stairs to a storage room. Several boxes of books were piled by a table, and the contents of the rolling cart showed that they were only just starting to be entered into the system. Several books were set to the side on a separate table. Ernest donned a pair of cotton gloves and nodded at Giles to do the same. He opened the Dravnian codex on the table and asked, “What does this mean? _A Wyrm shall arise in the City of Angels, surrounded by the armies of the Dead. And they shall be defeated by warriors once evil and children of strength._ ”

Giles winced at the prophecy, spoken without thought. “It's a book of prophecies. Utter rubbish, of course, but still, interesting for rarity and for sentimental value. Did Mr. Ceniza price it yet?”

Ernest stared at him. “You're interested in the book?”

“Yes. I was...away when Professor Pevensie died, and she taught me Dravnian from this very codex. Sentimental, I know.” Giles trailed off, removed his glasses and started to clean them with his handkerchief. “Strange—not that many people know Dravnian, and I would swear I knew them all.” He replaced his glasses. “You wouldn't be related to—but no, he's gone. But you are like, very like.” Giles hmphed softly, almost to himself, and turned back to the book.

He could feel Ernest shifting back and forth in discomfort. “Rupert, Mr. Ceniza hasn't had it appraised yet. Mr. Corso is coming tomorrow to go through the library. If you would like to come back, I'm sure you could discuss purchasing the book with them at that time.”

Giles nodded and stripped off the gloves. “Very well. Tomorrow then.” He handed Ernest a business card, one that marked him as the headmaster for an exclusive girls academy. “Please pass my card onto Mr. Ceniza?”

He walked out. Hopefully Wesley's natural curiosity would come to the fore. Obviously, he had some sort of amnesia caused by the trauma of his fight with Vail. But how was he alive? And to what extent was the “Ernest Sanders” personality real or constructed. It seemed to be a combination of the innocence of the young Watcher when he first met him, without the arrogance of the Council backing him up, but with the confidence in his research skills that Wesley had gained over the years in Los Angeles.

It was also obvious that he was fascinated by the prophecy that had already come true.

~~~

Later that afternoon, Giles received an email.

> To: rgiles@stelizabethacademy.edu.uk  
> Fr: esanders@yahoo.co.uk  
> Re: A Question
> 
> Dear Mr. Giles,
> 
> I have a rather odd story to share with you, and would hope that you not delete this email without reading it to the end.
> 
> I have no memory from prior to waking up in a long term care facility outside of Los Angeles in January of 2005. I was told that my name was Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and that I was a former licensed private investigator and officer of Wolfram and Hart, a now defunct law firm with an insurance plan that lasted above and beyond the life of the company, or at least that branch.
> 
> From what little I could tell from the information given to me, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was not a happy person. I was shown his journals; they spoke only of frightening things, of pain, of secrets, of loss. They spoke a little bit of you.
> 
> I knew that I was no longer Wesley Wyndam-Pryce when the person who said he was my father proclaimed that I was malingering, and to get back to work. I refused, and asked that he not be allowed back into my presence. I decided to take a new name and build a life for myself. The social workers and psychologists agreed that if my memory did not return for my blood family, it was unlikely to return at all. Therefore, they assisted me in changing my name and I began a new life as Ernest Sanders.
> 
> However, the prophecy in the Dravnian Codex speaks to me of my past, things that the doctors were unable to explain. I wonder if you might be able to clarify this for me in some way.
> 
> Would it be possible for you to meet me at the King's Stag Pub in Knightsbridge this evening, at half-eight? No need to reply to this email, as I have my dinner there often. If you choose not to attend, I will let you alone and continue to live my life as I have for the past two years.
> 
> Yours sincerely,
> 
> Ernest Sanders

Wesley had taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

~~~

Giles arrived at the pub a little bit early, just so that 'Ernest' would not think that he wouldn't show up.

Wesley-Ernest was waiting at the bar and ordered a pint for him as he walked in. They were shown to a table in the back corner, far from prying ears and about as private as you could get in a busy pub. They chatted over inanities until their dinner was served, when Ernest leaned forward.

“Rupert, when I read those lines from the Dravnian codex, you flinched. Subtly, but it was there.” He toyed with a chip for a moment, a strangely un-Wesley-ish gesture. “I kept those diaries, and you were mentioned quite a bit, at first as an apparent rival for control in your work, then as a respected colleague and friend. Please, tell me what happened?”

Giles swallowed. “You died. You fought someone who was more powerful than you, and you died. At least we all believed you did. Ill—someone who was there brought word. I wasn't there, then. Came after. Part of the cleanup crew, as it were. I looked...” He swallowed again around the sudden tightness in his throat. “We, we never did find your body.”

The younger man tightened his lips. “Not my body. Wesley. Are you hoping to get him back?”

The anger in his voice startled Giles. “Why did you ask me here, Ernest, if you thought I only wanted Wesley back?”

“Because I need to know! When I saw you, you seemed familiar. My own father, if he was what he said, wasn't familiar. You felt comfortable. You felt right.” Ernest took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, this was a mistake. I just--” He scooted out of the booth and was out the door before Giles could react. With a curse, he threw some notes on the table and scrambled after Ernest.

Ernest-Wesley was halfway down the block and gaining speed when he turned down a side street. The back of Giles' neck prickled when he realized that he couldn't hear Wesley's footsteps. He pulled the stake out of his pocket and ran for the side street.

The street wasn't exactly a street—more of an alley that backed into a warehouse where trucks could park. Ernest was backed against the wall with three vampires menacing him.

Giles wasn't a Slayer, and there wasn't any time to call the current group on duty. He lunged for the nearest one, catching it by surprise and staking it before anyone could react. That evened the odds up a bit, and then they were fighting. The vampires had supernatural strength on their side, but they weren't actually very good fighters, and tended to telegraph their strikes so Giles ducked them easily. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wesley fighting, and it was Wesley's fighting style, from what he could tell.

Giles kicked his opponent into a trash can and yelled “Wesley!” before throwing him the stake. Wesley caught it easily and staked his vampire into dust. The last one ran away while Wesley checked in his coat for something that wasn't there.

Leaning down to catch his breath, Giles realized that he hadn't stuck to the plan. “Ernest? I'm sorry I called you Wesley.”

Ernest slumped to the ground, touching the pile of ash that used to be a vampire. “Don't be.” He looked up, and Giles could see that his eyes were wet. “Giles. Don't be sorry. _I remember_.” Wesley, definitely Wesley, stood and stumbled against Giles, who put his arms around him to hold him up. “All of it. What happened with Vail. Angel. Gunn. Spike. Did-- did they make it? Any of them?”

Giles squeezed his own eyes shut and shook his head, unable to say the words.

Wesley slumped against him, breathing hard. “And we never...”

Oh, Giles did not want to answer this question. “No.” He leaned his forehead against Wesley's and put a hand on his shoulder, more to steady himself than anything. Touching Wesley felt so right. “I was a stubborn fool.”

“So was I.” Wesley whispered. “When, when I was Ernest, and I saw you, I knew. Knew there was something important between us. The way you touched the book, so reverently.”

Giles squeezed Wesley's shoulder. “Was quite difficult to call you that. Ernest.”

A laugh that bordered on hysteria barked from Wesley's mouth, and he pulled Giles even closer. “When you called me by my name and threw me the stake. That's when I remembered.” Wesley leaned forward and kissed Giles gently on the mouth. “Thank you for that.”

The rain chose that moment to start falling. As the water plastered their hair to their faces and dripped on their glasses, Giles kissed Wesley back, much less gently. “Come on then, Wesley. Let's go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes. The bookshop in Swindon next to a carpet store is a reference to the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde.
> 
> Wesley new name has two roots. Ernest, from the play 'The Importance of Being Ernest' and Sanders from Winnie-the-Pooh, where Pooh “lived under the name of Sanders.” The title is also a reference to  
> 'The Importance of Being Ernest'.
> 
> Susan Pevensie is from the Narnia books. After reading Neil Gaiman's short story 'The Problem of Susan' I came up with my own idea of what happened to Susan after her parents and siblings died.
> 
> Mr. Ceniza and Mr. Corso are borrowed from Arturo Perez-Reverte's 'The Club Dumas' which was the basis for the Johnny Depp movie “The Ninth Gate”.
> 
> The fake name for Slayer Academy is my name!


End file.
